| P r o l o g u e |
dylan
Just for a moment, the only sounds that could be heard in the square of District 4 were the faint whistling of the wind and the heels of Roxanne Burke click-clacking across the stage as she walked steadily over to the glass globe containing thousands of slips of paper. The bitter attitude of the citizens lingered in the air, for the Reaping of the 59th Annual Hunger Games had just begun.
Worried families from the sidelines clutched onto each other, regardless if they even knew one another, and hoped that the odds would be in their favor, just as they did every year. Sometimes they were, but as we all know, two families had to give into the high demands. The rich were safe. The poorer you were, the more cautious you became.
She had no reason to worry, no reason to fear entering the dreaded stadium constructed by the Capitol and for their entertainment. Still, her face remained completely still, not moving and portraying a cross between fear and disgust. Her fists clenched in a ball at her sides and the camera panned in on her face. She knew they were there. She knew all districts of Panem would gain at least a couple clear seconds to take in her heart shape face, her unnaturally green eyes, her blond hair pulled into a complex bun, perched on the top of her head. She had no reason to worry, no reason to fear…
Roxanne's hands swirled around the glass globe and dived in to retrieve one unlucky name. She held it between her ridiculously polished blue nails – which matched the wig of curls on her head – and walked back center stage, standing before the microphone to read the small, scripted handwriting to District 4.
"AnnaSophia Larkin," Roxanne read, clear as day.
The cameras panned back in on her face, the face of the girl I had been eyeing earlier. Every child, every adult, every being in the square that day, remained silent and waited for the girl tribute of District 4 to step from the crowd and take her place on the stage with Roxanne Burke. Every child, every adult, every being in the square that day knew the name 'AnnaSophia Larkin,' for it was familiar in all of their mouths, but she still did not emerge from the crowd.
I sat there, stunned. How could it be? The odds were completely in her favor. The seconds ticked away and Roxanne stood patiently on the stage, her mock smile a little too cheery, her delight made a little too known. The camera swooped over the vast crowd of District 4, then went back to the same girl, whose eyes were now down-casted as she massaged her knuckles. Beside her, another girl around her age gripped her arm and whispered something in her ear, proceeded by her nudging the Tribute forward and the crowd parted so she make her way to the stage. The Tribute, the one with the blond hair and green eyes, had her arms dropped limply to her sides as she made her way forward, her face still etched into a sullen disgust.
She walked up onto the stage and towards Roxanne, who now pondered over her name and said into the microphone, "Larkin… I bet you're one of the mayor's daughters." Still, her mock smile remained.
All flair from AnnaSophia Larkin, daughter of District 4's mayor, was now flushed away, diminished. Her intricate blouse now seemed lifeless, those skinny, maroon corduroy's seemed to drag along wherever she placed her feet. Her face, too, had been purged of any color, leaving a pasty, pale complexion.
It was as if she had already accepted her death.